


#29: Never Eat Lunch at Your Desk if You Can Avoid It

by Knitwritezombie (Missa_G)



Series: 100 Rules for Adults (That Clint Barton Never Learned) [29]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash, Stealth Caretaking, brief mentions of illness, clint and phil are busy dudes, lunch deliveries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:00:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2614316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missa_G/pseuds/Knitwritezombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint often forgoes food on meeting days, choosing instead to do something physical in between rounds of sitting at tables. </p><p>Someone takes objection to that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	#29: Never Eat Lunch at Your Desk if You Can Avoid It

Despite presenting an image to the rank and file of SHIELD that he was nothing more than a smart-mouthed sniper, Clint’s duties actually reached far beyond shooting things. Once Coulson had become his handler, Clint had started reviewing mostly completed intelligence briefings that were related to missions he had completed or scheduled.

Once he’d started taking college classes (opting to take a lot of classes through distance learning because that first semester had taught him that he wasn’t made to sit in a classroom), his desk-bound responsibilities increased. Especially when he was recovering from an injury.

And of course, there were days that seemed to be nothing but endless reports and paperwork and meetings and if he was lucky he got in a couple of hours of training. Often, on those days, he didn’t get a chance to grab anything more than a coffee and whatever tidbits were offered in the meetings by way of food. 

He hadn’t really thought anything about it, long used to dealing with hunger; he’d make a couple peanut butter sandwiches when he finally got back to his quarters. At least, until Coulson found him staring off into space one mid-afternoon in his cubicle.

“Barton!”

“Hm?” Clint turned, “Sir?”

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for a couple of minutes now, Clint. Everything okay?” Coulson asked, a couple of folders in his hand, and a frown creasing the space between his eyes.

Clint nodded. “Just a long day of meetings, sir. I’m not so great at sitting still, you know that.”

Coulson nodded, but studied him. “Did you get lunch, Specialist?”

“No, sir. I just got back from that meeting with the FBI attache and I have another meeting with Stayles in…” he glanced at the clock pinned to the wall of his cube. “fifteen minutes.”

“That’s enough time to run to the commissary and get a sandwich,” Coulson advised.

“I know. I just needed a few minutes away from people,” Clint said. If he couldn’t get a run in to ease his body before his next meeting, he’d at least try to find some quiet.

“Okay,” Coulson said with a short nod. He passed over the files. “Jameson asked me to pass these on to you for review. It’s the compiled data from the Hoboken thing.”

Clint accepted the files and slotted them into the rack next to his computer monitor. “I’ll get to them as soon as I can.”

“There’s no rush. Missing briefing tomorrow at 1015 hours on the Taylor extraction,” Coulson reminded him.

“Yessir,” Clint responded.

Coulson appeared to study him for another moment before he nodded and turned on his heel. 

Clint took a deep breath and closed his eyes, breathing slowly while he counted to five hundred. When he was done, he gathered his tablet, phone, and other bureaucratic nonsense, grabbed a cup of coffee and went to his meeting.

He didn’t think anything of it until the next time his schedule put him in meetings and appointments, and, when he stopped by his desk to trade briefing packets found a brown paperbag sitting square in the middle of his desk. Curious, he peeked in and found an apple, a powerbar, a small bag of trail mix on top of a plastic container with vegetables and hummus, and a gorgeous looking turkey sandwich. Glancing around, Clint repacked the bag and tucked it under his arm with the folder he needed for the next meeting.

It was the first time he could remember getting through a desk-work day without wanting to smash his head against the board-room table.

It happened again six weeks later, while he and Coulson were both on light-duty while recovering from light injuries and a shared bout of strep throat and respiratory virus. Since he was sticking to headquarters for the day, his mystery lunch benefactor had included a hearty stew that he could warm up in the break room instead of a sandwich, but most of the same goodies.

The random lunch deliveries continued for six months, whenever he and Coulson were on base for extended periods of time, and it was only happenstance that Clint discovered who had been leaving him food.

Unexpectedly, one his Clint’s meetings was pushed back, so he took his pile of folders for the next one, his brown bag lunch from his mystery provider and headed up to Coulson’s office. The door was cracked open and Clint tapped on it, not waiting to be given permission before entering. 

“Hey, sir, I had a few extra minutes, and thought…oh, you have a lunch fairy too?”

Coulson raised an eyebrow. “Lunch fairy?” he asked, popping the top off a very familiar looking plastic container.

Clint shrugged and grinned, sheepishly. “I didn’t know what else to call it. On meeting days, lunches mysteriously show up on my desk.”

Coulson smiled. “I don’t have a lunch fairy. I pack my own.”

“Okay,” Clint said, moving toward the sofa. “Oh!” he said as the pieces connected. “Sir, you didn’t have to…”

Coulson’s smile softened slightly. “It was no trouble to pack a second lunch on days I knew you’d be around and would rather go run off the day sitting around rather than eat something,” he said easily. 

“Oh.” Clint said again, softer. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

“You’re welcome,” Coulson responded. “How’d that appointment with Johannsen go?” he asked as he tossed Clint a bottle of water. Clint groaned as he caught it, then launched into his report as they ate.


End file.
